My Funny Valentine, or St Valentine's Day Massacre
by Matrix Refugee
Summary: ROAD TO PERDITION Sequel to A Slaying Song Tonight. The road to finding true love has a lot of bumps in it...especially if your name is Harlen Maguire
1. My Favorite Work of Art

My Funny Valentine, or

Saint Valentine's Day Massacre

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

This sequel to my previous RtP outing would not be possible if I hadn't got so many glowing reviews from so many people. Thanks! (I strongly suggest you read the prequel to this just so you can get an idea of the history of the anything but ordinary couple that figures in this.) I also figured a little more Maguire mayhem was in order, especially because I ain't too keen on St. Valentine's Day…and I thought it might be interesting to see "the Reporter" in love.

Disclaimer:

I don't own _Road to Perdition_, its characters (certainly NOT Maguire), concepts, or other indicia, which are the property of Sam Mendes, Max Allen Collins, David Self, DreamWorks SKG, 20th Century Fox, et al. I also don't own the song "My Funny Valentine", which was composed by Moss Hart and Richard Rodgers, lines from which appear as the titles of the chapters.

I: My Favorite Work of Art

A slack night. The chilling cold that had settled on the Midwest was keeping the denizens of Chicago indoors out of the biting winds, huddling together for warmth. Sooner or later, though, tempers would start to flare over empty coal hods and wood boxes and someone was likely to start a brawl.

Only two shots to develop tonight: a drunk run over by a freight wagon and another of a fourteen year old rape victim huddled on a stoop screaming (probably covering for seducing her "attacker"; he'd noticed something decidedly crocodilian about her tears); too graphic for the _Herald_, but just right for _True Crime_.

The radiators barely worked in Maguire's flat, but a few kicks in the right places on the iron monstrosities could coax a little extra warmth from them. He gave the radiator a good clout before he set to work developing his shots.

Too quiet. Something big was bound to happen soon. He could feel it in his bones. _Just might be the cold,_ he thought, sourly.

The radiator banged to life in the front room, but he detected some odd offbeats in its usual steady rhythm as he stepped out of the dark room on his way to reheat some coffee while the prints dried. He realized the extra bangs came from the front door.

He shot back the bolt and opened the door, keeping the chain on, and looked out.

A tall, dark-haired girl in her early twenties stood out there in the hallway, her black fedora tilted over one ear. The light from the room glinted on her wire-rimed glasses.

"Hey, there any guys in there lookin' for some company?" she asked in a squeaky falsetto.

"Not any that are interested in you," he replied, and slammed the door shut.

He went to the kitchen, checked the coffeepot on the dresser to make sure no ice had formed on the contents and set it on the gas ring on the end of the table under the one small window. He was just about to turn on the gas and light it, when the knocking at the front door started again. He went back to answer it.

Bridie Rooney again, her hat centered and tilted back.

"My dear gentlemun, would you kindly consider making a kind charrritable donation to the Good Samaritan House?" she asked in a fruity alto.

"What do you want?" he demanded.

"Just a place to spend the night. I'll be out in the morning," she said. "You'll never know I was here."

He undid the chain and opened the door for her. She stepped into the room, bringing in a suitcase and a large leather haversack that bulged with hard angles like the corners of books.

"Now what brings you out on a night like this?" he asked, closing the door behind them.

"Mrs. Campanini threw me out, said I'd failed as a governess for her daughters. She's really cut up after Angelica disappeared," Bridie said. "I tried around, but no one wants to give me a room for the night for love or money."

"So what made you come here?"

"I saw your light on and I wondered if you'd let me sleep on your floor. You're the last person I know in the city who I haven't bothered tonight."

"The floor's too cold to let a dog sleep on it, but you can have the couch," he said.

"Thanks, chief, I knew you had a heart hiding under your shabby-genteel exterior—and I mean that 'shabby-genteel' as a compliment."

"Well, er, thanks," he managed.

She started taking off her coat, then paused. "Is it cold in here, or is it me?"

"No, it's cold. My landlord's a cheapskate, barely keeps the furnace lit, never mind letting it run hot enough to actually heat the place," he said. "I was just warming some coffee. You want some?"

She left her coat on. "Sure, thanks."

He headed back to the kitchen, thankful to get away from her for a moment.

He prided himself on maintaining a polite if cool detachment around women, but he had to admit to himself that Bridie did something to him. Since their first encounter on Christmas Eve, they'd met on the street a few times, but they'd only exchanged polite greetings.

But, as the coffee warmed on the gas ring, he caught himself peering out through the kitchen door to the hallway, watching this strange, slim creature that had just traipsed into his digs. He could hardly remember the last time a dame, other than his sister Lily, had crossed that threshold; if he had a date, he didn't bring them home, not after one dame had turned her nose up at his work. A hotel room for the night or the back seat of his car would do just as well for that…

But just as Bridie's presence was getting on his nerves, looking at her caused other sensations to arise in him. He'd rather have a blue-eyed blonde who didn't know a flashbulb from a light bulb than a brunette with a dictionary in her pretty head, but he could already feel his stomach rub itself against the inside of his shirt.

As cold as it had been for most of that winter, he'd largely been celibate, but that was starting to get to him. He wasn't a man of huge appetites, not like some of his esteemed colleagues (ha, ha, ha.). Buchner, the photo editor at the _Herald_, had described him as the sort who "ate little, never drank or smoked, and fornicated little". The first three were true, but that last was nobody's business except his own and his girlfriends'.

When was the last time anyway? he asked himself. Oh yeah, the girl with the harelip who'd complained about his nails being dingy and who wouldn't overlook it even when he explained they were stained from the developing chemicals he used. 

He ventured back into the front room to find her studying some of his framed prints, which hung on the walls of the front room, looking at them intently, studying them as if they were French lithographs in the Art Institute: The dismembered body of a showgirl, still clad in her now blood-soaked feathers and spangles, stuffed into a steamer trunk abandoned at the railway station…a wealthy bank president lying sprawled face down on the pavement outside a bordello, gunned down by a "jealous rival"…the autopsy of an actor who had OD'ed in a hotel room.

"Has anyone ever told you you're an artist?" she said, looking up at him.

"Yeah, you just did."

She looked at him. "Besides me, I mean."

He shrugged. "It's what I do to pay the rent," he said. What the h—l did she mean by that? Was she saying that to get around him, or did she honestly mean it?

"Granted, the subject matter is bound to generate a lot of controversy, but the way you've shot the photos is excellent. You capture mankind at its most vulnerable moment, when a man has slipped over that great divide."

"I thought art mostly had to do with beauty," Maguire said.

She wagged her head. "Not necessarily. Maybe to Maxfield Parrish, but to me and to a lot of other critics these days, real art has to do with truth. I don't have to tell you that the truth can be anything but beautiful."

"That's quite _true_," he said, chuckling at his own joke. She smiled at him and he felt his insides somersault.

The coffee pot chuffed, so he went to take care of that. He rummaged in the back of the top shelf of the dresser and found an extra mug.

A board creaked in the hallway. He looked up as Bridie stepped into the kitchen.

"Quite a gallery you got there," she said. "You do that with all your shots?"

"No, just the ones that were especially challenging to get, or happened to depict prominent citizens," he said.

"I noticed our princess wasn't among them," she noted.

"Don't remind me," he said, with a shiver not caused by the cold.

"Must have been hard, even for you, finding her like that."

"One of the worst shots I ever took," he said, getting the tin of sugar cubes down from the shelf. "You take sugar?"

"Me? No, thanks. I scandalize people this way. Women are supposed to be sweet and all that."

He handed her the less battered mug. "Not a bad thing to defy the stereotype a little, create some contrast."

She took the mug in both hands. "Create some contrast: you sound like an artist," she said, holding her cup against her chest, as if to warm herself.

He dropped his usual four lumps of sugar into his cup and stirred it in. he sensed her watching him.

"I was tempted to ask, how much bloody sugar are you gonna put in that?" she said, bantering.

"One of my worst habits," he said.

"Well, if that's your worst, I'd say you aren't so bad off as some," she said, sipping her coffee.

"So, where you planning on going from here?" he asked, nonchalant.

"I'm not quite sure yet," she admitted. "I'll probably head back to Rock Island and stay with my uncle John, at least till I can get my feet back under me—and as long as my crazy cousin Connor doesn't start doing more than just giving me the ol' hairy eyeball."

"I imagine a looker like you must have to deal with an awful lot of that," he said, bantering.

She rolled her eyes. "More than I care to. One reason I dress the way I do, just to blow 'em off. But nothing deters Connor. He's been looking me up and down since I stopped putting my hair in braids and I had it whacked off…With your looks, I imagine you get some similar treatment from the fair sex."

"To some extent, I do. But when they find out what I do for work it's 'Oh, you're a crime photographer for the tabloids. Oh, how interesting'. And then they excuse themselves to go to the powder room." 

"Does it bother you?"

"Hey, if they can't handle it, that's their problem."

"So what got you into it, news photography, I mean?"

"Long story, but I'll try to keep it down to a reasonable length…My father died when I was fourteen; he made the mistake of mixing some rat dope while eating lunch, so I leave the results to your imagination…My mother wasn't right in the head after that, so us younger kids—there were eleven of us that lived, and I was number nine, number thirteen if you count the four others that died—us kids got farmed out to live with relatives. I went to live in Des Moines with my aunt Clareen and her husband, got a job as an errand boy for a photographer's studio when I was sixteen. The boss noticed that I had an eye for details when I looked at things, so he offered to teach me. He told me there wasn't a lot of opportunity for a young man doing portraits, and I wanted to do some traveling, so he recommended me to a few newspaper editors he knew."

Now just why was he spilling all this to her? he wondered. Must be the damned sugar he'd put in the coffee. Some guys snorted coke, but with him, coming as he did from a dirt-poor farm family with few luxuries, sugar was his drug of choice. Or maybe it was just the fact that the presence of a dame in his apartment was getting his blood up and unhinging his tongue.

"I hate to sound like an ungenial host, but I have a few prints drying that I have to get to my editor," he said, setting aside his empty mug on the sink ledge.

"That's quite all right," she said. "Go about your business as usual. I don't want to be underfoot. Like I said, I'll be leaving in the morning."

On that note, he excused himself and headed for the darkroom, closing the door behind him.

He set his back to the door, leaning his shoulders against it, breathing slowly and deeply, trying to refocus. God, what she did to him without trying!

After a moment, the pungent smells of chemicals cleared his head and he set to work. He selected the usable prints and labeled them on the back in soft-lead pencil: date, location, a few identifying details, then in the lower right hand corner, he added his signature: H. Maguire.

He stepped out into the front room to find Bridie had parked herself on the end of the sofa with a kid's paperbound composition book, jotting something in it with a stubby pencil. She glanced up at him as he passed through to collect his topcoat and hat from the hall closet, but no other exchange than a polite nod or two passed between them.

As he headed out into the night, he flipped his coat collar up against the wind that gnawed at his bones.

His latest material was too graphic for the _Herald_, but _True Crime_ over in the 2000's on North Clark Street would appreciate his contribution, though Needaker, the raffish bohunk in charge would whine about the fee, Maguire knew. But with the kind of copy he provided, he kept the rag going. After all, his shots really were "art".

When he came back to the flat, he found Bridie already curled up on the couch, dozing, her coat spread over her for a blanket, not quite covering her feet.

He went to the bedroom and, feeling a bit concerned for her, got a spare blanket from the shelf of the closet. He brought it to the front room and nudged her shoulder a little. She opened her eyes and looked up at him.

"It's not right for you to freeze there," he said, unfolding the blanket and covering her with it.

"Gee, thanks, fella," she said, sleepily.

"You're welcome," he said, shutting out the lamp and heading for the safety of the back bedroom.

He gave the radiator a few good kicks before taking off his shoes and unfolding the creaking Murphy bed folded into the wall. With one less blanket, he'd be a little colder, but the sensations she inspired in him just might compensate.

To be continued…


	2. Your Looks are Laughable, Unphotographab...

+J.M.J.+

My Funny Valentine

Or, St. Valentine's Day Massacre

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

I have to mention this: I named one of the supporting characters in this in honor of my friend "Ruby Tuesday O'Neil", who I virtually met through the Yahoo! Group "AI_Fanfiction", and who gave me one of the most glowing reviews I've ever gotten for any fic, ever, for the prequel to this, so if you're reading this, yes, Ruby, I chose that name on purpose….and THANKS! The rating climbs a little, for a semi-attempted non-consensual intercourse bit that turns semi-consensual for just a moment. "Now what the heck does THAT mean?!" you're asking. Read on and find out….

Disclaimer:

See chapter I

II: Your Looks are Laughable, Unphotographable

As the sleep slowly retreated from Maguire's head the next morning, he detected an odd beat to the bangs and clunks from the radiator. He stuck his head out from under the bed-covers, feeling the cold on his face as he listened to the sounds: thumpety-thumpety-thumpety-thumpety-thump-thump ping-whizz-clonk…thumpety-thumpety-thumpety-thumpety-thump-thump ping-whizz-clonk…thumpety-thumpety-thumpety-thumpety-thump-thump ping-whizz-clonk…

That wasn't a radiator: that was a typewriter. But who in the building had a typewriter?

He crawled out from under the covers, pulled on his pants and shoved his feet into his shoes. He peered into the front room on his way to the bathroom, careful to keep out of sight. Bridie the intruder was still there, fully dressed, and clacking away on a small Royal portable typewriter she'd set up on one end of the table.

He went back to the bedroom to dress. The chill in the air tempted him to stay put for the day and keep warm, but if he hibernated, he'd risk missing a good shot. His rent was due and he hadn't had any special jobs from Nitti, so he couldn't fall back on that. Clean up jobs made more than his regular line of work, but he couldn't expect much of that since the Moran gang had shot at McGurn, Capone's third in command, some weeks back.

He got up from the edge of the bed and peered out the window that overlooked the alleyway. Snow fell steadily. Today was bound to bring some good shots: car accidents, mishaps with snow plows, who knew what else.

His resolve returned as his sluggish blood warmed in his veins.

Bridie was still typing when he passed through the front room, on his way out. She stopped and looked up.

"Good morning," she said.

"'Morning," he replied, a little absently. "You still hanging around?"

"Yeah, with it snowing like mad out there, I figured I'd wait for it to blow over. No sense getting myself stranded somewhere."

"You have breakfast already?" He wondered if he could bribe her to leave by getting her a meal, but decided that might backfire.

"Yeah, I found some eggs in the back of your icebox; I'll pay up before I leave."

"Nah, what's mine is yours," he said, not sure if he meant it.

Unless the weather was really bad, he rarely ate in: he couldn't stand his own cooking. Camera case in hand, he trudged along the snowy street to Cappy's Kitchen, a storefront restaurant a few streets over.

The snow had kept away all but the diehard regulars like himself and a few others, as he discovered when he went in. Ruby the waitress—small, dark hair, an almost Spanish look to her—sat at one end of the counter, reading a copy of _True Crime_, one of his photos on the cover.

He set his camera case on the floor and perched himself on one of the stools. "Hey, where's the service?" he demanded, pretending not to notice Ruby sitting one stool over.

She reached out and baffed his shoulder with the newspaper. "Storm didn't keep you away, camera-boy," she said, stepping behind the counter.

"It's either that or cook it myself, and I didn't feel like suicide on toast today."

"'Suicide on toast', you're a classic, mack. So what'll it be, the usual?"

"Might as well, so Cappy won't be busting his skull trying to remember it, or trying to figure out who the new guy is."

"You're full of it this morning," she said. In a peahen screech, she called through the kitchen window to the cook, "Hey, Cappy! Wrecked hen fruit with an oink!"

She took down a mug from the shelf behind the counter, filled the mug with coffee and set it in front of him. "So, you keepin' warm these cold nights?" she asked.

"Marginally," he replied, adding sugar to the coffee. "My landlord barely keeps the furnace lit, which doesn't make it any easier…Hey, mind if I ask you for a bit of advice?"

Her eye was on the sugar shaker in his hand. "I got one bit already, but you'll probably ignore it: I'd go easy on the sugar if I were you, or you might end up with that sugar disease."

"Not likely: I burn it up carrying my rig—or staying warm these days. Seriously…say you had an uninvited guest in your apartment and you wanted to get 'em out as quick as you could. What would you do to drive 'em out?"

"Funny you should ask that: Hank's aunt Sarah came to visit us at Christmas, and she decided to stay on into the New Year. Had to put up with her parakeet cheep voice well past Little Christmas and taking down the tree. I mean, even Hank got sick of having her around. We both asked her very, very nicely could she get the heck out of our apartment? But no, she starts whimpering about how Hank is her only nephew and she rarely gets to see him and she wants to be close to us when the baby comes—not that there's one coming, she just keeps pesting me about having a kid. So we both agreed to start pulling a few stunts to get her to leave. Hank asked the kid across the hallway to practice his violin more loudly than usual."

"Uh, oh, the landlord must have liked that!"

"His father IS the landlord, so he was in on it. That didn't do any good as far as getting Auntie Sarah to leave was concerned: she just stuffed cotton in her ears. Then Hank shut the water off in the kitchen sink so she couldn't make her tea. But what did she do? She just went and filled the kettle in the bathroom sink. But I came up with a loo-loo: I took a used sanitary napkin and stuffed it under the radiator. Boy, that made a nice stink. She packed her bag that day, saying she couldn't stay in a place that smelled like a pigsty."

"And so the witch got on her own broomstick and flew away…Gee, you mean the radiators work in your place? Maybe it's time I pulled up stakes."

"I'd put in a word for you, but there's nothing free. So…who's the uninvited guest, your sister again?"

"No, it's just some girl I know, said she got thrown out of her place so she just needs some place to crash until she can go home to Rock Island."

Ruby's caramel-colored eyes danced. "Ooh! Maybe y' should just let her stay. Y' need someone keeping an eye on you, and I can't do it: people are starting to talk anyway."

"It's not like I couldn't use a ladyfriend, but with my profession, it's hard to extend my household," he said. "I had one dame try looking in on me once in a while: first time she put her face in my door, she saw some of my work; she stopped coming around after that."

"Maybe you just hadn't found the right girl yet," Ruby insinuated. Cappy stuck a plate piled with steaming scrambled eggs mixed with chopped ham through the window. She took it and set it down on the counter.

"I find it very hard to believe someone as nice-looking as you didn't get snapped up a long time ago," she added, in the same tone, leaning over the plate and looking him in the eye.

"Hey, Hank's not gonna like it if he hears you been hitting on me," Maguire snarled, mock-menacing. She only smiled and moved on to serve the next customer who'd come in.

He didn't think of himself as being much for looks. His hair was already thinning and he was only thirty-five, plus he had a few badly placed moles on his left cheek. But he had to admit, his face was well shaped, thought nothing extraordinary, and he had one of the slimmest physiques in the city. He was the best-looking of the five boys in his family—of the ones that survived or they knew about, at least—which made a lot of his relatives question who'd actually sired him in the first place, since the menfolk of their tribe weren't known for their looks. But even then he'd be the first to say his looks weren't worth wasting film on.

The last thing he needed was a wife, if that's what Ruby meant. Marriage might be good for her, but her husband was a plumber—when he could find work—nice, normal guy with a nice, normal job, no dodgy little side-jobs for that youngster. He'd heard that Mike Sullivan, better known to journalists as the "Angel of Death", old man Rooney in Rock Island's enforcer, supposedly juggled his profession with taking care of a wife and two kids. That baffled Maguire: why mix interests like that? Did his wife know how her husband brought home the bacon? What if the kids found out?

Fortified, he paid his bill, leaving behind a two-dollar tip for Ruby, and ventured out into the snowfall again.

He got a few "human interest" shots: kids building a snow fort in a vacant lot, a woman towing twin toddlers stuffed into an orange crate bolted to a sled. He got lucky and came upon a three-car pile up in front of a vegetable market, all three drivers unhurt, two shouting at each other, the third trying to cool the other two down.

His method for finding suitable subjects was simple: look for a crowd. Wherever the vultures were, there was bound to be a body. But with the cold, the biting breeze, and the snow sifting down, few were likely to congregate.

For some reason, his eye kept straying to the displays in the shop windows: the penny Valentine cards in Woolworth's; ruby bracelets and diamond pendants at Tiffany's; roses in a flower shop window. When was the last time he'd given any girl a Valentine card anyway? Oh yeah, when he was twelve: Jessica Perkins, the cute blonde, very mature for her age; she got so many cards she'd just about needed a second satchel to carry them home. She hadn't noticed his and she certainly hadn't given him one. Somehow, Brutus Ketchum, the fourteen year old ox who'd been kept back in the seventh grade twice, had gotten wind of Harley "the Runt" Maguire's attempt at romance and had given him a drubbing. He'd limped home with the beginning of a tremendous shiner: Pa had said he'd never amount to much if he couldn't even defend himself; Ma had said he just needed to grow a little. And worse still, next day, he'd seen Jessica sitting near Brutus at lunch, the little minx.

The things you worry about when you're only twelve, he thought with a smile. They loom large then, but they shrink to their proper size when you've lived to be nearly three times that age.

Midafternoon, he went home on the El, to develop his shots and get the prints off. This way he could get out of the cold and he wouldn't have to pass any more wretched St. Valentine's Day displays. He just had to keep the camera case out from under every clodhopper's feet.

Bridie was still in his apartment, writing something in another of her small notebooks, when he came back.

"You have lunch?" she asked. "I saved half of a corned-beef sandwich for you."

"I rarely eat lunch," he said.

"So that's how you keep that knock-out figure of yours," she said, sultry-voiced, but with a mocking glint in her eye.

He headed up to Buchner's office later that afternoon, dropping off the morning's work.

"Slow day, eh?" Buchner remarked, leaning back in his chair as her perused the photos.

"'Fraid so: people are staying inside keeping warm, not tearing each other's throats," Maguire admitted.

"Looks like Harmon Maxfield got more work than his better-known alter-ego Harlen Maguire," Buchner said. "Something's bound to blow soon."

"I certainly hope so," Maguire said.

"Valentine's Day's a couple days away. There's bound to be a rash of crimes of passion: women getting back at their husbands for spending the afternoon with their girlfriends, guys catching their girls with someone else."

"I get the picture," Maguire replied, grinning at his own pun before he went out 

"Hey, Maguire!" an all-too-familiar youthful bass-baritone called from another office.

"Hey what?" Maguire asked, half-ignoring the bulky young man who stepped out, approaching him. Oh no, not Cunningham the cub. The kid was only a copywriter, but he fancied himself the next big thing in journalism.

"I couldn't help overhearing," Cunningham said, sticking his thumbs in the armholes of his vest. "You losing your edge? Y' wanna switch jobs for a while? Mind if I pounded the pavement for a change?"

"You wouldn't last out there," Maguire said. "It's more than just pounding pavements and chasing paddy wagons. It's knowing exactly where to look and having to go into places nice young guys like you don't belong. I don't think you'd last."

"If a skinny runt like you can stand it, a moose like me might take it better than you," Cunningham said, flexing his shoulders. Cunningham was about ten years Maguire's junior, outbulking him by at least fifty pounds and standing about half a head taller, but the kid already packed a spare tire of flesh around his middle and he wheezed walking up and down stairs. If there was one guy Maguire hoped Nitti would put in his gunsights, if there was a bullet-riddled corpse he wanted to see inverted through the viewfinder, it was Cunningham's. But if Cunningham ever had to lug around the forty-pound camera case fully loaded with a Kodak, a small Leica, film, flashbulbs and tripod, he'd die of the strain and save him the trouble.

"I got a better idea: Keep to the copydesk, kid," Maguire said at length. "It's a jungle out there, and the cannibals would love to put a nice fat fellow like you in their kettle. They leave me alone because they ain't interested in someone with dry bones that'll stick in their throats." He started to walk away

"You're jealous, that's what," Cunningham retorted. "You're afraid I might find something big and you'd miss out on it."

Maguire stopped. Over his shoulder, he added, "You might find something big, but something bigger might find you. And even if you did find good material, none of the shots would be usable because your thumb would be in the way." He walked away before Cunningham could come after him.

He had his supper at Cappy's: roast pork with mashed potatoes and peas. Fortunately—or unfortunately—the evening waitress was Maxine the frump, who pretty much left him alone. She preferred the cattle truck drivers at the other end of the counter, but he caught her eying him when she thought he wasn't looking. Well, if she preferred guys of that bend, she could have 'em; he wasn't interested in a dame old enough to be his mother.

He wracked his brain over his meal, trying to think of a way to get the intruder out of his digs. Eating was a necessity he discharged of in an utterly perfunctory manner, his mind a hundred miles away, or in this case, three streets over and one floor up.

He shouldn't think of Bridie Rooney while he was eating, he tried to tell himself. The thought of her would give him indigestion. But he had to think of some way to get rid of the bore. Snow or no snow, she should have been out of there this afternoon. The very thought of her raised the kind of emotions in him he'd rather not have to deal with. He'd lose his touch. He'd seen other guys in his field (pick one) who'd lost their touch after they let a woman get under their skin, and he wasn't about to fall ill of that disease.

Bridie was still there when he got back, only now she was asleep, curled up on the couch in a cocoon of blanket, her glasses set on top of an up-ended suitcase within arm's reach.

In the washroom, he'd found what he guessed was Miss Rooney's overnight bag on the ledge of the sink, a sure sing she was trying to settle in.

He knew he should have told her to move on, find some excuse why she couldn't stay, and he kicked himself for not being more firm with her in the first place.

But he thought of one way he could drive her out, one utterly unmistakable gesture, something her mother had doubtlessly warned her about. What was she doing lingering in a bachelor's apartment? Didn't she know what could happen to her…?

He wasn't given to violence against women, unless he had his .38 in hand. Nitti had once sent him to permanently shut up the blabbermouth girlfriend of a lower-tier member of Capone's outfit, who could have compromised the whole gang, and he'd threatened a few other similar types who'd become troublesome. He decided in this case a threat would be enough.

The idea amused him. Too bad he couldn't capture it for the papers, it would make a great cautionary tale, what with St. Valentine's Day a few days away. Maidens, don't let this happen to you…

But first he had to develop and deliver his latest work: a guy being arrested for busting a jewelry store window, a car wrapped around a telephone pole, a couple being arrested for disorderly conduct. He walked right into that one. The dame, who was higher than a kite, had started screeching a blue streak when the cops were shoving her into the paddy wagon: "We were just standin' here! Leave us alone! Why doncha 'rest some other folks what ain't doin' nothin'?! The goon with the camera, he looks shady t' me!"

His blood had run a little colder at that, but he didn't betray it; he was too practiced.

There was nothing more lurid than that, which meant he'd be calling on Buchner, leaving the packet with the secretary.

His lingering irritation with the noisy skirt fuelled his intent when he returned home.

Even before he unlocked the hall door, he slipped off his shoes, then tiptoed through, carefully closing the door behind him. He deposited his gear in the bedroom and slunk out into the hallway, approaching the front room.

This would be easy, so easy he could do it with his hands tied behind his back. She'd barely even feel him until it was too late.

He padded into the front room slowly, careful to avoid the squeaky boards and creaky spots in the floor.

She lay on the couch on her back, wrapped in a blanket, breathing quietly, serenely, sleeping like the proverbial baby. Well, here comes a nightmare…

He lifted the blanket over he legs. Good, she was wearing a nightgown. He'd had a moment's concern that she might be sleeping in her clothes. What was more, the nightgown had ridden up over her thighs. Now what was she wearing for undergarments…

She gasped. He looked her in the face. Her eyes had opened. Great, she was gonna start shrieking her head off. He'd have to go for the full frontal assault. He grabbed for her throat with one hand, just to scare her, his hand groping with the fly of his trousers.

But she pulled him down on top of her. 

"Thought I'd be the scared maiden, eh?" she asked, her lips against his. He had no idea what got into him, but he kissed her, wide-open, lip bruising hard.

He tried to tear himself from her grip, but she'd hooked one leg around his hip, holding him against her.

He tried to logroll himself off her, hoping that the fall off the couch would break her grip on him.

But he only ended up flat on his back on the floor, her on top of him. He got some leverage with one knee and pushed her off, breaking her hold on him.

He jumped to his feet and bolted for the back bedroom.

"Best way to take a punch is to lean into it!" Bridie yelled after him, taunting, gleeful.

He slammed the bedroom door shut and wedged a chair under the knob. He certainly hadn't expected _that_ from her.

To be continued…


	3. You Make Me Smile With My Heart

+J.M.J.+

My Funny Valentine, or Saint Valentine's Day Massacre

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

Basically this is a somewhat quiet chapter, developing the St. Valentine's Day background as well as the relationship between Bridie and Maguire. In spite of himself, he's falling for her, though after all the trouble she's cost him, he'd be the first to deny that he is. You'll see what I mean.

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I.

III: You Make Me Smile With My Heart

At least the snow stopped in the night, so perhaps the intruder would finally leave. He scrupulously avoided being in the same room with Bridie, choosing to communicate with her from the hallway if they had to talk. But if he couldn't avoid it, he kept his eyes averted.

But then, as he was heading out, Bridie confronted him with a five-dollar bill in her hand.

"What's that?" he demanded, his eye on the bill but not on her.

"Room and board," she said. "Don't worry: I'll be out of here this afternoon, please God. I'm going to wire my great uncle for the money for my train fare."

"In that case…I'm sorry about last night. I wasn't thinking straight."

"I'll say this much: you used a pretty up-front way to drive out an unwanted guest," she said.

"You used a pretty up-front way to deter me—though I don't think that would work with every guy who tries that on you."

"I know. But I had this feeling you really didn't want to use that means."

"You a mind reader or something?" he asked.

"No, just good at reading people's behavior," she said.

"So, did you get rid of the nuisance?" Ruby asked. To his annoyance, she'd decorated the inside of the diner with red colored-paper hearts trimmed with white tissue-paper lace and red candles stuck into what decidedly looked like jelly glasses.

"I'm afraid not," Maguire admitted, over his first cup of coffee.

"Awww, so you _do_ like her!" Ruby teased, wagging her finger at him mischievously.

"I hate to burst your bubble, but it's not that simple," he returned. "I tried to give her a taste of what every mother warns her maiden daughter about, should she ever linger in an unattached young man's apartment…and my God, she came on to me! Granted, it was her way of fighting fire with fire, but it scared the bejeebers out of me."

"That's odd. I've never heard of anyone doing that. She must be real desperate for a date. Well, tomorrow's the big day for it. You doing anything?"

"Besides playing keep away from the unwelcome guest? No." He gave her what he meant to be a seductive smile, but which he knew didn't quite cut it, what with his bad teeth. "Why, you got something in mind, Ruby? Won't Hank get concerned?"

She made a shooing gesture at him. "Oh get going with you!" she snipped.

"Can't, I ain't paid my bill yet," he retorted.

Another long morning of canvassing areas, pounding the pavement, checking alleyways and side streets for fitting subjects. Harmon Maxfield had several more human-interest shots: young businessmen browsing the jewelry store windows and the flower shops. He spotted a few older men, bank managers or company presidents, nipping into lingerie shops with their hats tilted over their foreheads and their coat collars flipped up around their faces. He indulged a chuckle at this, but he didn't dare waste the film, until he spotted one especially stout old gent who nearly bumped into the doorpost of one shop on his way in, so great were his pains to keep his face hidden that he blocked his own view. It was a little too gossipy a shot than Maguire preferred, but at this time of year, a cheek shot was not out of the question.

He lucked out and found a domestic disturbance in a back street. A woman had thrown a pan full of boiling potatoes at her husband. He got a shot of the police helping the injured man, a big galoot in overalls, into the back of a patrol car, his hand wrapped in a rag full of snow while five other officers tried to bundle the wife, a hefty dame in her fifties, into the back of a van. Good enough for the _Herald_: he wouldn't have to keep being Harmon Maxfield today.

Bridie was nowhere to be found his digs when he got back, but her typewriter still stood on the end of the table and he knew she wouldn't go anywhere without her typewriter. Well, in that case, maybe she had gone to get the money her great-uncle was supposed to wire to her.

But some time later, when he was finishing up in the dark room, he heard her knock at the door. He lifted the corner of the curtain and went to answer it.

Her shoulders looked a little drooped as she stepped into the room and her hat didn't sit at its usual jaunty angle.

"Hey, what happened?" he asked, helping her with her coat. He almost stopped himself, but he decided it was better to be a gentleman.

"Oh nothing much: my uncle John won't send me the cash, says I should be a little more independent," she said.

"That's too bad," he said. "D' you have anyone else who might help?"

"No. Well, there's my godfather, but he's got a wife and two sons to support, so I don't want to pest him for the cash."

"I'll pay it for you," he said. I'll have a commission check coming soon. I'll split it with you." Now what made him say that? He wondered.

She shook her head. "You've been too generous already. I've got a commission check of my own coming soon. I'll manage."

"Listen: something big's gonna break soon. Maybe tonight, maybe tomorrow, I dunno. I can feel it in my bones. There'll be enough for you. It's the least I can do to make up for the full frontal assault last night."

"If I recall correctly, I was doing some of the assaulting myself."

"Not THAT much."

"Something big, you say? How big?"

"Can't tell: the crystal ball goes dark. But it's gonna be a hell of a shot. I mean, it's been too quiet after McGurn got plugged."

"What, "Machine Gun" McGurn, Capone's torpedo? Were you on that?" Her eyes had widened a little.

"Damn right I was. Got the jump on every other reporter in town—except the jerk who got his thumb in the way of the lens when he took the shots. The papers were fightin' like a bunch of sharks trying to get my shots."

"My, you do get around."

He shrugged modestly. "It's what pays the rent."

"But the tabloid shots, the lurid stuff…do you enjoy taking those?"

"I guess I could say yes: makes you feel more alive."

"I don't follow, though I should."

"It's really rather simple: you look at someone lying dead, shot to pieces, say, and you think, 'My God, that's gonna be me someday, lying dead'. Then you feel your own heart still beating and you realize your blood's still in your own veins where it belongs, and you think, 'Whew, well, that's not me yet'. So the contrast heightens yer own sense of being alive.

"Besides, people like a good jolt. Good for the circulation…get it?"

"What?" she asked, puzzled. Then realization dawned in her eyes. "Oh." She cuffed at his sleeve. "Only _you_ would make a joke like that…It makes perfect sense. I guess that's how you can sleep at night after spending your days among all this gory stuff."

"Yeah, I hit on this theory not long after I started my apprenticeship in the craft."

"And I suppose it explains why people read that stuff."

"You're probably right. I guess you'll have to elaborate on your end of it in due time," he said. God, was she trying to get around him or was she being honest? he thought as he went back to check on his drying prints.

Or was she doing both?

It had started snowing again early that evening. He doubted there'd be anything worth his bother that evening, and he didn't want to risk starting rumors by taking Bridie out for dinner. She'd found some canned clam chowder in the back of the cabinet and started heating it on the gas ring. She cut a few slices from a loaf of bread she'd bought, but she got a shock when she went to toast it.

"Er, do you have a toaster?" she asked after rummaging in the cupboard.

"No, I just never got around to buying one," he admitted. "My sister got all over me for it when she came to visit at New Year's, especially when I showed her this trick." He slipped the slices of bread in between the sections of the radiator under the kitchen window. He expected her to be shocked, but she started laughing instead.

"Talk about necessity being the mother of invention," she said.

Over their chowder and toast, she told him about her family: her father who worked for old man Rooney, his uncle, as a shipper; her mother who had passed away a few years back; her two older sisters, one married, the other in the convent; her year in college, the first Rooney woman to go to college. She'd dropped out only because she'd gotten short on money, which was why she'd worked as a governess for the Campanini girls. Their father Anselmo, better known as 'Sam' to his associates had wanted only the best for his girls. His sister had barely learned to read and write, but his daughters would be _ladies_.

"But it didn't work for Angelica," she concluded, shaking her head sadly. She looked up at him across the table. "That must have been hard, to shoot the picture of her like that."

"Yeah, terrible," he agreed, his gaze already lowered. He hoped it bore a convincing enough look of dismay.

She reached across and patted his hand. "Well, you're still alive," she said.

He smiled thinly at this, remembering his own remark earlier.

While she washed the few dishes, he went down to Vernon's to pay the rent. Most landlords had the rent due on the first of the month, but Vernon wanted the rent money in on the thirteenth of the month, to balance any bad luck the day might bring.

It was getting late, not much point in staying up after he delivered his shots to their respective publishers, so he decided to turn in early.

The cold set in almost worse than it had the previous nights, cutting right through his coat as he scurried from his car to the house, up the stairs to the flat.

He found Bridie making up her couch for the night, her topcoat on over her clothes.

"Hey, don't sleep there, you'll catch your death of cold," he said before he realized what he'd said. "We'll both stay warmer if we share one bed. I promise I won't touch a hair of you."

"Aren't you afraid I might jump you in the night?" she asked, only half serious.

"Nah, I ain't afraid of nothin', least of all you," he said.

"Okay, you keep to your side, and I keep to mine. Deal?" she extended her hand to him.

He took it. "Deal." They shook on it.

To further prove the innocence of his intention, he took off only his shoes and his vest, but not until after he'd given the radiator the usual ten or twelve kicks.

"Uh, how about using a hammer?" Bridie suggested.

"Nah, it's more fun kicking it in the slats," Maguire said

"Talk about getting your kicks," she said, with a chuckle. He smiled at her pun, then reached up, using his wiry frame as a counterweight, and pulled down the Murphy bed. She eyed the bed curiously.

"Okay, I give up: why is the bed made up with the sheets tucked in at the top?" she asked.

"Not a simple answer," he said. "When I first moved here to Chicago after I worked for the paper in Detroit, my first shot was of a woman whose husband had murdered her by folding her up in a Murphy bed while she was asleep and leaving her there to suffocate. One of the very rare shots that has actually given me the willies. She might have lived if she was wedged in there feet downwards. So, ever after that I've made up the bed with the sheets tucked in at the top."

"Good thinking," she said.

He looked her in the eye, then dropped his gaze to the floor. "After you," he said, with a lift of one hand.

"_Thank_ you," she said in a fruity voice.

He kept his eyes averted as she got in between the sheets, but he couldn't imagine why he did that. He waited until she had settled down, then he switched out the light. He groped his way back to the bed and crawled in beside her. She started moving about under the covers, as if trying to find a comfortable spot on the mattress.

"OW!" Bridie yelped.

"What?" Maguire asked, lying with his back to her.

"I just banged my elbow on something at the end of the mattress."

"It's a pry bar," he said, realizing he'd forgotten to take care of something.

"Now what's that doing there?" she asked, twitching around some more. If she kept moving around, she'd get the answer to her question. The springs on the hinges were old and stiff, so he usually unhooked them before he turned in, to prevent any mishaps.

He was just getting up to take care of this, when the springs suddenly jangled, tensing. He had just enough time to turn over on his face before the bed folded up on them.

"Are you happy now you know what the pry bar's for?" he asked, muffled. He groped for the pry bar, grabbed it, and slid the end of it between the edge of the closet casing and the edge of the mattress. He managed to lever the bed open wide enough for him to wedge his head and shoulders out. Using his weight as counterweight and crawling up to the top of the mattress, he pushed it open all the way. Bridie drew in a long breath and let it out.

"Whheeeewwwww! Fresh air," she sighed. Then in a mock moony voice, she added, "My hero." Even in the dark, he knew she looked up at him with a fake simpery look on her face.

"Not that I'm throwing you out or anything, but maybe it would be the best for us both if you kept to the couch," he said.

"You're probably right," she said. "Sorry about this."

"Don't worry about it: I've had this happen before."

"And that's why you were prepared for it," she said. He heard her get up and pad out into the front room. He breathed a sigh of relief of his own once she was gone, then he got down to unhook the springs like he should have done in the first place.

First getting clonked with a fruitcake, now this. Maybe Vernon was right about the thirteenth being bad luck even if it wasn't a Friday. Or maybe it was just this woman was bad luck.

To be continued…


	4. The Picture Thou Hast Made

+J.M.J.+

My Funny Valentine, or St. Valentine's Day Massacre

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

WARNING: There's no actual violence in this chapter, but there's plenty of gore, since this deals with the infamous St. Valentine's Day Massacre. For the historical content of this chapter, I'm indebted to Laurence Bergreen's biography of Al Capone (itself an excellent read, and the book was also part of Max Allen Collins's research material when he wrote the original graphic novel, _The Road to Perdition_). Almost of itself, the copy of the book I got from a local library opened to a photo of the aftermath of the St. Valentine's Day Massacre. For those of you who desire a visual reference, here's a very useful page (you'll have to cut and paste the link into the address line of your web browser: drat ff.n for stripping HTML tags along with a lot of other formatting tags in the course of chapter uploads!):

http://www.spartacus.schoolnet.co.uk/USAmassacre.htm.

The picture is in the middle of that page. It's credited to a "John Miller", but I bet that's a misreading of a faded signature on the back of the original photo, a signature that really reads "H. Maguire" (Ha! Ha! I just had to say that).

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I. I had NOTHING to do with the St. Valentine's Day Massacre, either.

IV: The Picture Thou Hast Made

Following the Murphy bed mishap, Maguire didn't sleep well. Bridie's presence beside him in bed, even for a few minutes, had ignited something in him. Much as he wanted her the hell out of his apartment and out of his life, he caught himself not wanting to send her away, either. She seemed genuinely interested in him, not just as a source of income or as a bedfellow, or even as someone to screw with, even if she had grabbed him when he tried to scare her away.

Was this love? Was this what the popular songs described? Was this the thing the holiday just a sunrise away was all about? It wasn't like he'd never been involved with anyone before, far from it. But it was never like this. Nothing fazed her much. She wasn't trying to fix him up, either. And she'd called his photographs art, for God's sake! How many people had called his work _that_?

He woke just after sunrise, too keyed up to stay put much longer. Something was bound to happen today. He could feel it in his bones, or maybe that was just the cold gnawing at him as he washed up and dressed. 

Bridie still lay fast asleep as he passed through the front room on his way out. He paused and knelt beside her, listening to her breathing in her sleep. Should she stay…?

His impulse was to lean down and kiss her, but he steeled himself against it. Sentimentality was something he couldn't hazard, not with his profession (pick one). He got up and went out, walking as quietly as he could, closing the door softly behind him.

Cappy and Ruby were just opening the restaurant when Maguire arrived, relieved to get out of the biting cold air outside.

"Well, we're up early today," Ruby said. "That intruder drive you out?"

"No…" he admitted, wishing he hadn't drawn the syllable quite as long as he had.

She looked him in the eye. "Wait, is that a soft edge to your voice I hear? You falling in love with her?"

"Listen, she's got nowhere to go, and I've got room in my apartment for a few days at least till she can get the cash to go home to her family in Rock Island."

"Aaaawwww, you couldn't have picked a better time for it, fella."

"For what?" he asked, adding an "as-if-I-didn't-know" edge to his tone.

She grinned at him, setting a cup of coffee in front of him. "You got it bad for her, fella. There's a heart hiding under that unromantic exterior."

"All right, I have a heart. I just don't wear it on my sleeve like every other idiot. It's safe behind my ribs where it belongs."

"And for someone in the kind of profession you've chosen, that's a necessity," Ruby said. "You keep it there, camera-boy. But let her inside. I ain't met her yet, but I bet she's good for you if she's gotten around you in this short amount of time."

"Even still, life goes on," he said, adding sugar to his coffee. "There's a city of a thousand vices out there all clawing at each others throats, ready to draw blood. St. Valentine's Day or not, the blood's gonna flow."

"There's the Maguire I know," Ruby said, cuffing his shoulder. "Don't let some little skirt make you lose your edge."

Fortified with three cups of coffee and his usual breakfast, Maguire set out onto the street. The frigid wind hit him full force as he turned a corner—they sure didn't call it the "Windy City" for nothing—but it only quickened his blood, getting his resolve up.

After he took a few nothing shots—a break in on a side street, a fist fight among teenagers—and after he stocked up on film, he headed to Needaker's office to pick up his check. Something was in the air on North Clark Street. He could taste it.

Blood: he could smell it, almost taste that weird metallic tang of blood mist in the air, a scent he knew well, one way or another. Something big was gonna go down, and it would go down soon. The city had been much too quiet lately. Even Nitti hadn't called on him lately, though his secondary employer had hinted once that there something was going to happen that could be a photo opportunity, but he couldn't say more.

As he drove by the S.M.C. Cartage garage later that morning, about half-past ten, the sun shone dimly behind the thin icy clouds obscuring the blue of the sky. The lighting had a weird cast to it, almost as if through a veil.

Gunshots broke out: the ratattattatta of machine gunfire and the separate cracks of handguns split the air. He slammed on the brakes and pulled the car over. Keeping low, he peered over the sill of the passenger side window. A dog howled, wolf-like in the sudden stillness that followed.

He reached for the small Leica in his camera case and quickly loaded the film by sense of touch, keeping his eyes on the scene.

Three cops emerged from the building, following two guys in overcoats, hands in the air. The cops hustled them to a cop car standing at the curb. He snapped a shot. What was this? A bootleg sting? What would he find inside? Something wasn't right.

The cops bundled their catch into the back of the car, jumped in the front and sped away, siren wailing.

There was just something odd about that, but he couldn't say what it was. After about fifteen minutes, waiting for any signs of life, he got out tentatively.

A few people in neighboring businesses and boarding houses had come out onto the street, attracted by the commotion: office workers, mechanics from a machine shop nearby, a few passersby. But from the "what is it now?" looks on their faces, Maguire could tell a lot of them were only too accustomed to the things that went on in the city. The crowd started to drift away almost as quickly as it had come. And the dog kept howling.

As he tried the front door, which was unlocked, another cop car pulled up, the officers getting out almost lackadaisically. One of them, a young fellow, eyed him suspiciously and started to move in on him, but another, Houlihan, whom Maguire had met several times at may other crime scenes, pulled the youngster back. 

"Let him alone, Ryan," Houlihan mumbled. "He's in press."

They let him accompany them into the building. The tang of gunpowder and cordite flavored the air of the small, sparsely furnished office they entered first. The dog barking got louder and more frantic, interspersed with yelps of terror. Maguire opened the door between the office and the garage, which stood slightly ajar.

The stink of blood hit their nostrils. Maguire stepped in, camera ready.

A runnel of red flowed across the concrete floor almost to their feet. His gaze followed it to its source.

Close to the bullet-pocked far wall, scattered across the concrete floor, seven bodies lay sprawled, seven men. Maguire recognized them as members of the Moran gang, who'd been trying to cut in on Capone's business. He'd kept tabs on them only on account of his own associations and as reference against future developments, like this one right at his feet.

It looked like something out of a movie. Pools of blood had stagnated in the hollows of the floor. Flecks of brains showed white against the gray concrete. One corpse lay against the wall, parallel to the base, face down. Three lay sprawled awkwardly on their backs. Another had slumped against a chair near a table at a right angle to the wall. The seventh, closest to the door, had lived long enough to crawl towards it, as if trying to escape.

The dog they'd heard, a German shepherd, lunged at the end of a chain tied to an exposed pipe on the near wall, to the left of the door, still yowling horribly, the whites of its eyes showing.

"Oh…my…God…." Houlihan said, his jaw slack.

Maguire climbed up on a tall workbench nearby, focusing carefully. The seventh corpse went out of the frame a little, but not enough to ruin the picture God, this stuff was red hot.

More cops were coming in. Ryan yelled out above the voices and the dog's howls, "Will someone shut up that damn dog?!"

Another cop drew his service pistol, about to shoot the animal.

"For the love of God, there's enough blood here," Maguire yelled. "It'll ruin the picture—and the poor dumb thing had nothing to do with this!"

Another young cop undid the dog's chain, talking to it soothingly. The second it was freed, the animal ran out the door as fast as it could.

Maguire filled one roll of film after another, taking shots of the police examining the scene, then moving out onto the sidewalk to get a few shots of the crowd's reaction. Another steadily growing crowd now replaced the bystanders who had dispersed earlier. If only that first crowd knew what they'd missed…

He appeared to be the only representative of the fourth estate, but then he spotted Trohan, a reporter from the City News Bureau approach, pushing through the crowd. Mike Fish, another photographer, was at his heels. Thank God Cunningham was nowhere to be seen.

"Hey, Maguire!" Trohan called. "I figured I'd find you here after Pastor gave me the tip."

"I happened to be in the neighborhood when I heard the shots," Maguire called back as he removed the last of the film from his camera. "I better warn you before you go in there: it's a goddamned slaughterhouse in there."

"I thought you specialized in them," Trohan teased. "So what are you doing out here?"

"I came out for a breath of fresh air and to get a few crowd reaction shots," Maguire said. "Be careful where you tread in there: I got more brains on my shoes than all my old girlfriends put together had in their heads!"

Well past noon, the coroner's men showed up to cart away the bodies; one guy had somehow lived and had already been taken to a hospital nearby. God, what a morning! No one had nothin' on him. He caught himself wishing Cunningham had shown up.

And speak of the devil…here came the cub himself, pushing through the crowd, puffing and blowing like a whale, sending billows of steam from his nostrils, his premature jowls trembling.

The kid elbowed his way through the crowd to the door, obviously without a single clue what was in there, waiting for him. Maguire counted the seconds…

Thirty seconds later, Cunningham tottered out, his face almost bright green, his hand clasped over his mouth. He ran to the alleyway and stumbled around the corner, dipping his head out of sight behind an ash can. Even at that distance and over the murmur of the crowd, Maguire heard the kid retching. He choked back the derisive laugh that rose to his lips. Well, you got your big one, fella. Whaddya think?

Cunningham hobbled back along the sidewalk, pasty-faced, a gobbet of bile stuck to the lapel of his overcoat. He limped past Maguire's car, then paused, turning his face to meet Maguire's gaze.

"Maguire…how can you stand taking pictures like that?" the kid asked, dry-voiced.

"Simple: I grew up on a cattle farm. We slaughtered our own beef. So, I just say to myself, 'It's slaughtering day', and I just set to work."

"You're lucky," Cunningham said, and wobbled away into the crowd.

Maguire packed up the last of his gear and hurried home. He had an hour's work ahead of him and he wanted to get the jump on Fish and the others.

When he got back, Bridie was nowhere to be found in the apartment. Her bags stood packed by the door and she'd left a note saying she'd gone out to do a few errands before she tried wiring her uncle again, but he set that aside. He had his work to do.

By three, he had assembled a collection of the best shots for delivery, when he heard her knock at the door. He practically ran down the hall to answer it.

Bridie stepped in from the outer hall and caught him in her arms, around the shoulders.

"Oh, thank God, you're in one piece!" she cried. "I heard about the shooting on Clark Street and I started to worry about you."

"Aw, I can look out for myself," he said, as she released him.

She looked him in the eye. "You were there," she said.

"I was the first newsman in the whole city on the scene. I just about beat the cops there," he said. "C'mon, I'll show you the shots I got."

He laid them out on the table for her perusal: The doubtlessly phony cops speeding away; the gruesome tableau; the police finding Gusenberg, the seventh guy, still breathing; the dog darting out of the garage; the reaction of the crowd of bystanders: some blank-faced with shock, some outraged, some horrified, a few smugly self-righteous; John H. Lyle, the temperance pioneer showing up, ready to turn this incident into grist for his own mill.

"It's as bad as they say," she said. "You struck gold today. But what a day for it to happen."

"It gives an angle to the story," he said. "Besides, these punks had it in for them: they were trying to tussle wit' Capone. Y' just don't DO that an' live to tell yer grandkids about it."

She slipped her arm about him, across his back. "I'm happy for you, but I can't help feeling sorry for those men." 

Maguire shrugged but he didn't push her away. "Have it your way." He slipped from her hold slowly. "I'd stay and tell you the whole tale, but I gotta deliver these shots before my competitors get the jump on me."

"Before you go, I'd better tell you something," she said, her gaze dropping.

His heart thudded into the soles of his shoes. "What?"

She looked at him. "I wired my uncle again. He wired back, said he'd send the money tonight. He wants me back home in Rock Island."

The warmth that had permeated his humming nerves and veins suddenly cut out. The chill of the room crashed over him.

"Then you're leaving?" he asked.

"First thing tomorrow morning, most likely."

"It's up to you…but if I had my druthers, I'd ask you to stay. You've cost me a few headaches, but there's something more here. I just can't put my finger on it."

"You fallin' for me or something?" she asked, dead serious.

He hesitated for just a split second. "Hell, yes," he said, pulling her to him. He tilted her face up to his and kissed her. She stiffened under his touch, then quiesced.

He let her go. She caught her breath, her eyes looking up into his. "You better go deliver your shots," she said, husky-voiced.

The newsroom was an anthill of activity when he got there: typists pounding out copy, reporters coming in with more details. He passed them all by, heading straight for Buchner's office.

"Here's the blood dog himself," Buchner said, rising behind his desk. "The story is you were there when the bullets were flying. Some say you got shot in the melee."

"No such luck, though there's some who wish I had." Maguire handed over the envelope. "These were the best I could do," he added, understating.

Buchner took the envelope, opened it, and took out the 8X10s. For a moment, his broad, non-descript face kept calm as he leafed through them, then his eyes bulged and his jaw fell open. He looked up at Maguire.

"My God," he said. "It's as bad as they say. Weegee would die for shots like this."

Maguire shrugged one shoulder. "I took 'em as I saw 'em."

As he headed out, Maguire noticed Cunningham's spot at the copy desk stood vacant, and they'd need every hand they could find on a day like this. He went out. He had to get back to Bridie.

Concluded in the next chapter….

Afterword:

One more link, this one blackly goofy: I ran across this when I was looking online for the visual reference. Someone in Chicago came up with an alternate Valentine's Day party theme. I can't tell you more: you gotta see dis page! 

http://www.mamohanraj.com/Massacre/massacre1.html 

I think I might even annoy the local "Golden Oldies" radio station I listen to when I'm writing my fics by calling them on Valentine's Day and asking them to play Paper Lace's song "The Night Chicago Died". Enuffa dis mushy love stuff!


	5. Don't Change a Hair for Me

+J.M.J.+

My Funny Valentine, or St. Valentine's Day Massacre

By "Matrix Refugee"

Author's Note:

Man, was it cold the day of the 74th anniversary of the Massacre! 18 degrees in the shade, same temp as that famous morning. I discovered my mother has the 45 (rpm record, that is! [Remember those?]) of Paper Lace's "The Night Chicago Died, so I didn't have to pest the radio after all…but I suppose I should anyway, just to creep the DJ out by doing my gangster voice. Now on with the fic…what befalls our strange lovebirds?

Disclaimer:

See Chapter I.

V Don't Change a Hair For Me

Maguire wasn't sure what to expect when he got back to the apartment. His hands trembled for a second as he unlocked the door. He anticipated finding Bridie's things gone, a note on the table and possibly a couple bills.

Her bags still stood behind the door. She came out of the washroom, on her way to the closet. He pushed the hall door shut behind him and blocked her path with himself.

"You don't have to go: I'd rather you stayed," he said.

"I don't want to be beholding to you," she said.

"I know you don't: that's why I want you to stay here."

"Why, after all the trouble I cost you?"

"Well…for the first time in my life…I'm falling for a girl who actually has brains in her head instead of cotton batting and who isn't trying to sponge off me." There, he'd said it.

"In that case," she said, "I'm glad you are."

"Oh?

Her gaze had dropped to the floorboards. She raised her eyes to his. "Because from the moment I laid eyes on you, I thought, there's a guy who doesn't want just an arm ornament or a permanently contracted housekeeper. It's hard to say what you are, Mr. Maguire, but I like what I've seen."

"If it weren't St. Valentine's Day, I'd take you out to dinner," he said.

"Hey, with all the stuff that's happened in the city today, no one's likely to be very romantic tonight," she said. "Let's just go out for a sandwich or something. You didn't tell me the news. All I've heard is rumors."

"Sounds good with me," he said with a shrug. "But…what about that train ticket you were buying?"

"I'll send the money back, just tell my uncle I'm all right, that I found a strapping young fella to protect me."

"Strapping?! I bet you and I weigh the same," he retorted.

He went with her to the Western Union office a few blocks over, where she wired back the money and sent a telegram to her uncle explaining the situation.

"I bet it wasn't even Uncle John anyway," she said as they walked back, the wind at their backs, their coat collars turned up. "I bet it was Connor, trying to get around me."

"Why, he got something for you?" Maguire asked.

"Yeah, he's been trying to get me to marry him, but I'd sooner marry a spider."

"That bad, hey?" He knew "Crazy Connor" Rooney by face and voice from his dealings with Nitti, but that was as far as it went and he hoped it stayed that way.

"It's worse," she said, shaking her head and rolling her eyes.

The streets rang with the cries of newsboys, hawking papers carrying the headlines.

"Extra! Extra! Read all about it! Seven gang members slain by mystery assassins!"

Cappy's was thinly patronized except for the regulars, most of who were talking about the massacre. Maxine eyed Bridie, who kept scrupulously distant from Maguire, almost as if she were his sister, but he didn't mind it. Anything else would have warranted a sniff of derision from Maxine, and he wasn't in the mood for her huffing at him. They both ignored the look the waitress gave them as they sat down at the far end of the counter.

Maxine came over, still eying Bridie suspiciously. "You want yer usual, chief?" the waitress asked. "Pork chops and mashed potatoes?"

"Might as well keep up the semi-standing order," Maguire said. he looked at Bridie. "And you?"

"Make it easy on the cook: I'll have the same," she said.

Over their meal, he told her of the day's exploits, including Cunningham's major jolt. "I bet the sight gave him heart failure; I can't help hoping he did," Maguire concluded.

"If he's as fresh to you as you say he's been, I don't fault you for thinkin' that," she said. "I've had people treat me like that."

"Oh? somehow I don't see that happening."

"It has: when I was in college, I had this one classmate twit me wanting to be just a writer, and not go on to be a doctor or a lawyer or something."

"Indian chief?"

"What? Oh," she said, as he recited the kids' chant, "Rich man, poor man, beggar man, thief/Doctor, lawyer, Indian chief."

"I thought of writing a Western once, but I gave it up. Just can't get into that genre."

"Stay with what you're good at. I ran across one of your stories recently, one of those, oh what did you call it?"

"Scientifiction."

"Right. Sorry it slipped my mind."

"No harm done. It's a tough word to wrap your tongue around, but we've wrapped our tongues around _telephone_. But go on." 

"I have to admit I'm new to this field, but you're a darn good writer."

"Thanks," she blushed. "Y' know…I started sketching out another story, and it happens to involve a photographer in the year 2000."

"Hell, no!…sorry."

"Heck, yes. Of course I've changed a lot of the details, least of all being his camera."

"Now how could you improve on that?"

"Okay, first, they're gonna be a lot smaller: smaller than a packet of cigarettes. And second, they're gonna capture the image as light energy. No film, just these tiny storage units."

"So how the heck do you develop the shots?"

"You'd need a special gadget that can burn the image directly onto the paper, but it would be lightweight, so you wouldn't have to lug around that heavy camera case and stop to go back and develop the film in a dark room. You just plug the camera into the printing machine, press a couple buttons and bing! Instant picture."

"Sounds complicated, but it might work. But not in our lifetimes."

"Nope, not till the year 2000."

"But it give you something to write about in the meantime." God, she was as smart as a whip, but she still did something to him! "Speaking of cameras, there's one other stop I have to make."

"Mind if I came along?" she asked.

"You wouldn't like it: I'm going to the city morgue. Needaker at _True Crime _'ll want a shot of the bodies."

"Let me come. I've been in tough places before."

"All right, but you've been warned."

They were silent a moment. From somewhere, they could hear a train whistle blow. Bridie looked at her watch. "Last night train to Rock Island and it's leaving without me."

"You regretting it?" he asked.

"No."

"Ready to go?" he asked.

"Yeah."

He called for the bill. She insisted on splitting the check, but he palmed her share into his pocket. Maxine glared at them again as they headed out.

"Gad, what's the matter with _her_?" Bridie asked, once they reached the sidewalk.

"She's jealous of you," he said. "She pretends she thinks otherwise of me, but I know she eyes me up when she thinks I'm not looking."

"She's old enough to be your mother."

"I'm older than I look."

"How old?"

He calculated for a second. "Thirty-five this May."

"You're better-looking than some guys younger than you."

"I am?"

"Oh yeah. This one guy who worked for Campanini, sort of a bodyguard, chauffeur, think he was Sam's half-brother or something. Guy's as fat as butter and he's only thirty. Used to give me the ol' eyeball something awful."

"Must make you glad to not be working for Campanini any more."

She looked up at him. "Oh yeah."

Murgatroyd the mortician, the gnome who ran the city morgue, let them in. "I been expectin' yah, boy," the spider thin old man said, as they descended to the basement workroom in a clanky freight elevator. "Figured you'd be down soon. Who's the little lady?"

"A friend," Maguire said. "Bridie Rooney: she's a crime-fiction writer."

The little man grinned over his shoulder and past Maguire. "Come down here for some inspiration, eh?" His bristly face crinkled with almost fiendish glee. "She's a right fresh one, son. Think this is a good place for her?"

"She insisted on coming," Maguire said.

Murgatroyd slid the cage-like door back and led them to the workroom door, unlocked it, and swung it in, letting them enter first.

The chill in the air of the room made Maguire's apartment seem cozy by contrast, and rightly so: to keep the contents of the storage drawers intact. Murgatroyd took a ring of keys from his belt and started unlocking the doors of the units, one after the other, then just as systematically, he started sliding the drawers out, revealing the contents.

Six corpses, draped in sheets from the neck down, six still forms. Cleaned up, they almost looked more ghastly than when he'd first seem them. Maguire got a chair from the desk in the corner by the door and set it up. The cold of the room made it difficult to wind the film into his Leica, but he managed somehow. Bridie watched, her eyes roving from one body to another, an oddly intent look in her eyes.

Murgatroyd got into position, pretending to be puttering around among the dead. Maguire climbed up onto the chair and took a wide-angle shot before he got down for the close-up shots.

As Maguire finished up, Murgatroyd reached under a table and drew out a shallow metal pan that rattled. "Another sight yer readers 'll want ter see," the old man added. He set the pan on the table, directly under the overhead light in the middle of the room.

A layer of bullets, machine gun and handgun rounds, covered the bottom of the pan. "Finished cuttin' the lead out about an hour b' fore yah showed up," Murgatroyd explained.

"Now there's a shot Needaker 'll want," Maguire said, focusing the camera on the pan, close up.

Between shots, Maguire overheard a low murmur coming from near the door. He glanced over and saw Bridie standing there, head bent, crossing herself slowly.

"Y' prayin', Missy? They won't want for it now," Murgatroyd asked her.

"Let her alone," Maguire said. "You all right, Bridie?"

"Yeah, just praying for the souls of these poor guys," she said.

Maguire said nothing to this till they got outside and they were heading back to the car. "You Catholic?" he asked.

"Yes, I am," she said, with a trace of pride. "What about you?"

"I gave that up for Lent a long time ago," he admitted.

She took this quietly as they hurried back to the car. He wasn't sure what to make of that response, or lack thereof.

Back at the apartment, he quickly developed the shots and got them ready to deliver to Needaker. The Bohunk would go daffy over them for sure.

"I hate to be a bore, but y' mind my tagging along again?" she asked.

"Ishkable," he said, shrugging. "C'mon, I'll point out the garage where it all happened."

At the storefront over which Needaker had his office, Bridie waited for him in the car. Maguire knew Needaker or one of the goons in the office would start leering at her and he didn't want to subject her to that. 

The photos got the effect he'd anticipated: Needaker's eyes bulged as he pored over them and he started gushing a blue streak in Hungarian or whatever it was. He handed Maguire a cash advance right then and there, out of his own pocket.

Bridie was shivering when he got back. He carefully cranked the heater up a notch: too high and you'd swelter.

"Hey, get yer leg away from mine," she snipped. He realized his thigh was up against hers.

"Did I touch you?" he asked, deadpan innocent.

She didn't reply and she didn't move either.

A moment later, his hand brushed her knee as he reached for the gearshift.

"If you weren't driving, I'd bop you," she said, but he detected something else in her voice.

Just inside the apartment door, after Maguire closed it, Bridie slipped her hands under his topcoat as he drew her to him, her back against the door.

"Hey, watch that," he warned, mockingly. "Didn't your mother ever warn you about being alone with a bachelor in his apartment?"

"My stepmother did, but it had no effect on her daughter, my stepsister."

He kissed her, hard. Now it was his turn to start probing under her topcoat. "Don't you know what it can lead to?" 

"I think we already had that little chat."

"Care to have another…deeper conversation?" he asked, his mouth against her ear.

"Do me one small favor first," she said.

"What's that?" he asked.

"If we're gonna make a night of this, you'd better fix that bed so it doesn't fold up on us in the middle of things," she said. "I'd like my first time to be memorable for other reasons."

"This your first time?" he asked. She'd given him such a lip-scorcher the night of the full-frontal assault, he'd figured she was an expert.

"You're not the first guy I ever liked, but you're the first one who liked me back and the first I've gone this far with. You lead, fella."

"And how," he said, husky-voiced. He kissed her again so she wouldn't change her mind, keeping his lust in check long enough to oblige her.

When he woke up the next morning, he felt something jostling him in bed. He poked his head out from under the covers, looking around. Yes, this was his place: the familiar walls with the peeling paper and the stained ceiling above…and the chill in the air that made him pull his head back in. But who…?

His bed companion stirred and nuzzled up to him. He turned over on his back and found Bridie beside him, looking him full in the face.

"Good morning," she said.

"G' mornin'," he mumbled, not sure whether to get up or pull her close for more. The way she looked at him, he was tempted to stay put. "You still here?" he ventured.

"Of course, you asked me to stay," she said. "As long as you still want me around." She nestled against him and closed her eyes, her head on his shoulder. He slid his arm under her, just holding her.

He decided then and there she was pretty, with or without the glasses. Without them, as now, her face looked oddly naked, but that only added to the novelty.

She stirred, sliding her arm across his chest, and opening her eyes, looked him in the face.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, curious but trying to sound cross.

She tilted her head at different angles, looking him in the eye. "I'm trying to figure out what color your eyes are," she said. "I started puzzling over that as soon as I found out you sleep with your eyes open."

"I do?" No one had ever before accused him of doing that.

"Yeah, it's weird, but I like it," she said, still looking him in the eye. "Okay, I give up, are they gray? Blue? Green? Hazel?"

"I put green on my driver's license, so that makes them officially green. I don't spend much time in front of a mirror."

"You'd put Rudolf Valentino to shame if you ever did," she said. "You'd have Joan Crawford eating out of your hand if you ever went into pictures."

"Trying to fix me up, eh?"

"Nah, I like you just the way you are," she said, giving him a gentle squeeze. "Bones and all, y' got nice bones. Don't change a hair for me, fella."

"Thanks," he said, taken slightly aback. God, what dame had ever told him _that_ the morning after the night before?

He was still tempted to stay put that day. The other papers would be fighting for his shots, but he and Buchner had a kind of agreement on that since Maguire's, er, night job sometimes took him out of town for a while.

She gave him a little peck on the cheek. He was about to respond to this in turn when she slid out of bed and went out, stooping to pick up something off the floor and sling it on.

She came back much quicker than she went out, almost running for the bed, clad in his shirt.

"Hey, that's mine," he snipped, faking irritation. She really didn't look half bad wearing it.

"I had to put something on, it's _freezing_!" she said, burrowing under the covers.

He noticed the air seemed especially frigid. He stuck his head out again for a second opinion. God, you could see your breath!

He hauled himself out of the sack, pulled on his pants and slipped on his shoes on his way to checking the radiator.

It was stone cold. He tried kicking the frozen thing, but his shoe came off in the process and he only succeeded in bruising his foot.

"D—n!" he snarled.

"What happened?" Bridie asked, peeking out from under the blankets. "You kill yourself?"

"No, but I just about killed my foot on that radiator," he admitted, limping back.

She drew him in beside her. "Hey, I'll make you feel better," she said, smokily. This would have its perks…

The End

Afterword:

All right, enuffa dat for now! I've got about three more planned for this series, first a summer one (involving pineapples), which will have to wait till July; then another Christmas one, this one being a kind of _Meet the Parents_ story with RtP characters; and then a cap-off which roots this series in the film, although I'll have to change the ending for that one to work.


End file.
